


Internal Estrangement

by Leviathan0999



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-02
Updated: 2012-10-02
Packaged: 2017-11-15 12:31:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/527341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leviathan0999/pseuds/Leviathan0999
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry has violated Ron and Hermione. Can their friendship be salvaged?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Internal Estrangement

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Argyle_S](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle_S/gifts).



> This story owes its entire life to **[Argyle_S](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle_S) ** , in whose footsteps it follows. I hope I've done her justice. Thanks also to Abigail, the Hysterical Historian, for friendly support, and Sarah Enany, for her unstinting love, support, and peerless beta-ing mojo. She's a huge part of the reason this story is any good at all, and has no responsibility if it sucks.
> 
> * * *

**Internal Estrangement**

_An Unauthorized Sequel to_

**[Argyle_S](../../users/Argyle_S) ’s _“[External Penetration](http://www.fanfiction.net/s/8499592/1/)”_**

by **Leviathan**

* * *

**Author's Foreword**

            Quite possibly the finest fanfic in the **Harry Potter** fandom is **[Argyle_S](../../users/Argyle_S) ’s _“[External Penetration](http://www.fanfiction.net/s/8499592/1/)_**.” It's a deeply insightful, heartbreaking story, with powerful ending, but that ending is an "open" one, and for years, readers of [Argyle_S](../../users/Argyle_S) ' original tale have cried out to learn "What Happens Next?"

            To be clear: The best way to enjoy the story that follows is to first read “ ** _[External Penetration](http://www.fanfiction.net/s/8499592/1/)_**.” It's one of the greatest fics you'll ever read, and you won't be sorry you did. You can read it here:

<http://www.fanfiction.net/s/8499592/1/>

            I tried to reach **[Argyle_S](../../users/Argyle_S)** hopes, her imprimatur, to consider what follows an "official" sequel to her story. Alas, she seemed to have left fandom entirely, and it had been years since anybody'd heard from her. So this was posted without her permission: consider it fanfic for her fanfic. She has recently re-emerged, primarily involved in a new fandom, and very kindly reviewed and recced this tale. I 'd have liked to think that my story is what follows on from hers, but [Argyle_S](../../users/Argyle_S) did say that she sees several things she'd have done differently, so this must be considered an "alternate future" of her original.

 

* * *

**Internal Estrangement**

 

            The back of Harry’s head slammed into the rough-hewn stone wall hard, and his vision washed out with electric-tinged red. Ron’s fist, clenched in his robes, pressed into his breastbone with terrific force. As his vision cleared, he saw the freckled face flushed almost purple, lips drawn back from teeth in a savage snarl, and one gnarled fist poised to strike, trembling with muscle tension. Back by the beginnings of the rubble, where the tunnel had collapsed, Hermione stared, her mouth a grim line, livid red spots on her cheeks, eyes practically burning. If he’d been looking for help, for support – and he certainly wasn’t – he’d find none there.

            “You know what?” Ron’s voice was harsh and hoarse through the ringing in his ears. “You’re just not even worth it. Stay away from us. Stay away from both of us. If you _even_ bother Hermione I will put you in the hospital wing so fast and so hard, Voldemort” –Harry noticed, and Hermione didn’t, that Ron was so angry he didn’t even hesitate at the name– “will send me a thank-you note!”

            He threw Harry to the ground as he turned away, and Hermione spared the fallen boy one long, contemptuous glance, before she followed. With a single, savage gesture of her wand, she banished the magical wall Harry had conjured, giving the last moments of their friendship some privacy. Then she and Ron were gone.

            He lay for a long time on the stone floor, before, trying to straighten himself up, he reached for a tone of black humor, mumbling aloud,“Well, I think that went–”

            But his voice cracked and a harsh sob escaped him, as if it were a living thing, desperate to be free of him, and he collapsed again to the floor, wracked and weeping, soaking the arms of his robes with tears.

* * *

            “Harry, really, you’re a brilliant friend!” Hermione’s face was still pink with embarrassment, but her eyes sparkled as she smiled at him. In the past few weeks she’d developed just a hint of a sort of defiant confidence; being with Ron was convincing her of what neither Viktor nor the gasps at the Yule Ball could: that she was sexy. “I mean, just the thought of it!”

            Ron’s voice was wry. “You just _know_ that greasy git would’ve waited until he caught us–” He ducked his face as his ears reddened. “--anyway, mate, we owe you big time!”

            “No you don’t.” Harry stared at his feet. “No you don’t.”

            It had been a miserable afternoon after Snape had brought him to Dumbledore, and there was no small part of him that would have given everything he owned never to speak to them of it. And he might have delayed days, even weeks, but for one thing. Snape had pulled the classroom from his mind. Professor Dumbledore had even told him to caution them about using it. If he just buried his head, they would sneak off, sneak into that long-disused classroom, and Snape would be there, lurking, waiting, and only make himself known when it would humiliate them, scar them, as much as possible.

            He could see it in his mind’s eye, Hermione exposed and open, Ron, trousers and pants around his ankles, his cock flagging, both staring, eyes wide, at the spiteful Potions master.

            For himself, for his shame, he’d wait a hundred years. But not at the risk of that!

            “C’mon, mate,” chuckled Ron, “I mean, all what-are-friends-for aside, that was a fate worse than death, that was! If you hadn’t been there...”

            “I–” Hermione had to clear her throat. “I didn’t even know you _knew_ about that room. I mean, about us–”

            Harry cringed, unseen as he led the way.

            “Good thing he did!” cried Ron. “With Snape hiding there inside, just waiting for us!”

            “Are you sure he didn’t see you there waiting to stop us?” asked Hermione, concerned. “I know there’s no rule against talking to friends in the hallway, but if he saw you spoiling his trap, he’ll find ways to make your life miserable!”

            Harry bit his lower lip hard enough to leave marks.  He looked again at the Marauders’ Map. “It’s over there,” he rasped. “Behind that column.”

            It was one of the seven secret tunnels out of Hogwarts – well, one of the seven detected by his father and his friends, anyway – but, as Fred and George had told him, it had collapsed. Still, there was a good ten or fifteen feet first, still lit by eternal torches, before the rubble blocked the path. He gestured Ron and Hermione inside, and then followed, and turned away from them, conjuring a wall like an Office-of-Works cubicle, and then _imperturbed_ it. It would not do to be overheard. Not tonight.

            Ron was blinking at him as he turned back toward them, his expression baffled. Hermione’s eyes searched his face, and her smile began to slip.

            “What is it, mate?” asked Ron.

            “Is something...?” began Hermione.

            Harry pulled in a deep breath. “I have to tell you something.”

            “All right, Harry.” Hermione’s voice was both matter-of-fact and comforting, and he felt it in his guts like a knife.

            “What’s up?”

            Harry looked down at his shoes, squeezed his eyes shut.

            “Harry?”

            _Never a Death-Eater attack when you need one!_

            “You remember, a few months ago, when I was sick, and that load of Death Eaters escaped from Azkaban?”

            “Yeah, sure,” said Ron. “You almost spewed your supper all over Malfoy! Truly, Harry, that would have been excellent!”

            “The night it happened, I got back from.... From those classes with Snape. I had a–”

            “I remember, Harry,” said Hermione. “Your Occlumency slipped. You felt Voldemort’s emotions. He was happy. About that break-out, as it turned out.”

            Harry’s eyes closed again. His breath trembled as he drew it in. “Snape was teaching me Legilimency,” Harry finally said. “Pro– Professor Dumbledore felt I should learn that to help... To help me protect myself.”

            “Makes sense so far, mate.” Ron’s voice held a misgiving. He could see Harry’s hesitance now, and nothing he was saying could justify it. Harry could see it in his face that he was starting to suspect that there was worse to come.

            Hermione’s eyes, though, had lit again.  “Harry, that’s– That’s _amazing!_ Legilimency is _very_ advanced magic! There isn’t a witch or wizard in a thousand who can do it! Are you actually _learning_ it?”

            She seemed taken aback at the bitterness of the twisted smile with which Harry answered. “Yeah. I’m actually pretty good at it.”

            “Sounds like good news to me,” said Ron.

            Harry stared at his shoes for a long moment. “It isn’t.”

            “Harry...?”

            He raised his head. “My defenses were down, Ron. I was sick, and my mind had been touched by Voldemort, and I thought, whatever makes him happy, we ought to know about. So I tried to read him.”

            “Harry, you didn’t!” Hermione’s voice was both concerned and scolding now, and her eyes showed fear of what Voldemort must have done to him. He should be so lucky.

            He looked over at Ron. “You had your hand on my arm. I... I _pushed._ Something went wrong, I don’t know what, and instead of Voldemort’s mind–” He stopped. He couldn’t look at them anymore, not if he was going to say it. “I was in _yours,_ Ron.”

            “Muh– Mine?”

            “And you were thinking about... You were remembering... Hermione.”

            Ron looked puzzled. “Hermione?”

            But her eyes were widening, and she breathed, “Oh, no, Harry. Oh, _no!_ ”

            Ron’s expression was still uncertain as he turned toward her, but the distress in her voice, the horror in her eyes, turned the key for him, and he could see Ron’s expression darken, see the pieces fall into place, as he turned back to Harry.

            “We’d only– We’d hardly got together then.” His teeth clenched. “How many times, Harry?”

            Harry’s eyes clenched, and he couldn’t keep his head erect as he answered. His voice was a hoarse rasp.

            Ron’s was hoarse, too, but loud and dangerous. “I can’t hear you!”

            “I don’t know!” said Harry.

            “Oh my God!” Hermione’s voice was tiny, and full of loss. “Oh, Harry!”

            “That was an accident–” Harry began.

            “But the next one wasn’t!” snarled Ron, and Harry’s reply was swift, desperate, “It _was_ , Ron, I swear to God it was!”

            “When we were late,” breathed Hermione. Her voice was stronger now, anger sneaking in. “You _stared_ at me, and you were so _angry_ , and you said–” She choked her words off. “Did you enjoy it, Harry? Did it give you a _thrill?_ ”

            Harry had not thought it possible to be any more miserable, any more mortified, but he felt his face redden at Hermione’s words.

            “Oh, you _fucking_ did!” cried Ron. “When _did_ you start doing in on purpose, Harry?”

            “Chr– Christmas morning.” If he’d felt relieved to confess that to Dumbledore, he certainly didn’t now. He felt like he was stabbing himself in the heart, again and again, with every word.

            “Merlin’s _fucking_ balls!” said Ron, and his face flushed. “Fucking _Christmas!?!?_ ”

            “Ron?” Even as upset as she was, Hermione’s eyes turned toward Ron in concern.

            “‘ _Have fun?’!”_ Ron snarled. “You _bloody_ bastard, you played me like one of the Grangers’ _fucking_ VDVs!”

            “Harry?” Hermione’s eyes were on his now, her voice cold. “What does he mean?”

            Harry couldn’t answer.

            “I _mean_ ,” said Ron, “that this parselmouthed bastard was awake when I got back to our room after we _fucked_ , Hermione! I _mean_ that he _fucking_ waited until I was all snuggled down and comfortable, and remembering you, and then he asked me, _Have fun?_ And it all just played back through my memory, you and me, the way you’d flashed me and teased me all fucking day, what we did in Fred’n’George’s old room. All of it! Just played out of my head for him to wank to!”

            “Oh, Harry!” Hermione’s tone was no longer sad. Her eyes were hard, and her words contemptuous.

            “You _fucking_ used us!” snarled Ron, and he lashed forward, grabbing Harry’s robes in angry fists. “The only ones you could always count on!” Ron spun him and slammed him back against the wall. “And you used us like a fucking _daydream charm!_ ”

            Harry just hung his head.

            “Since Christmas!” Hermione hissed. “All those months! By now you know my body as well as Ron does! What do you like better, Harry, my breasts or my vagina? Or perhaps it’s _Ron_ that interests you? Do you like having Ron fuck you, is that it?”

            Ron pulled him close, and roared into his face, “She asked you a _question_ , Harry!”

            “It’s not _like_ that!” Harry heard the self-justifying whine in his voice, and clamped his teeth over it. Let them hex him, let them hurt him, let them _kill_ him! He deserved it. “I did it, that’s all.”

            Ron slammed him back into the wall. “Who are you, Harry!?!?” he screamed, as he slammed him back, again and again. Hermione’s face was hard and silent. “Who the fuck _are_ you!?”

            And Harry, as he took the blows with his whole body, didn’t even know.

* * *

            “Merlin, Dean.” Seamus Finnegan’s words were _sotto voce_. “Willya _look_ at that, now!”

            Weasley and Granger were perched together at one end of the table in the Great Hall, their eyes darting now and again up its length at Harry Potter, who sat at the far end, seeming determined to see no further than the rim of his cereal bowl.

            Dean nodded solemnly as Seamus continued, “It’s been more than a _week!_ I mean, they’ve had their tiffs before, but....”

            Dean angled his head over at his best friend. “I think it’s sad. They’re not a TV show, mate, they’re our _friends_.”

            Seamus looked uncomfortable. “Yeah, yeah, I know. But it’s not like there’s anything we can _do_ about it, now, is there?”

            Dean’s head dipped sadly.

            “So’s, the _least_ we can do,” Seamus continued, “is gossip about them, yeah? Shows we care, dunnit?”

            Dean snorted as he shook his head. “You’re hopeless, Seamus, really!”

* * *

            “Hermione!” Ron’s voice was a barely-audible hiss at her ear, as they moved with the packed crowd toward the redoubled vacation in hell that was now Double Potions.

            She scowled back at him, so indiscreetly close out in the open like this. “ _Not now, Ron!_ ”

            Ron grimaced. “Like there’s any _other_ time!”

            Hermione stopped short, and couldn’t suppress the hint of a smile on her lips as his long, solid body was, for a moment, against hers. As she turned, she shouldn’t have made a point of letting her hip and arm brush against him, but she could no more resist that than a cinnamon quill. She put a hand to his chest – _Oh, the strong, solid warmth!_ – and looked up at him. “I know, Ron. I _know!_ I miss.... I miss you, too. But it just isn’t safe! You _know_ he’s _hunting_ us!”

            “Indeed?” The silky voice was low and dangerous, and they spun to see dark eyes half-hidden behind greasy black hair, hooked nose wrinkled in distaste. “Pity the poor predator whose prey is such a... _sullied_ morsel as this!”

            Ron surged forward, and the Potions Master raised an eyebrow at him as Hermione grabbed his arm. “Something to say, Weasley?” Snape’s eyes swept up and down Hermione, then returned to Ron. “I thought you’d realized! One of your humble lineage mustn’t play out of his league.”

            As Pansy Parkinson, passing close behind him, sniggered to Daphne Greengrass, Snape turned dismissively away. “Late to class, ten points from Gryffindor!”

            “But we’re _not_ late!” cried Hermione, knowing it was worse than useless, but unable to stomach the injustice in silence.

            Dark robes swirled as the Potions Master spun, and bore down upon her. “You are in this school, Miss Granger, to _learn_ , much as you may think otherwise, from your _betters!_   _Twenty_ points from Gryffindor for contradicting me!”

            As he turned and walked away, Ron leaned close, and whispered, his breath warm and voice an almost inaudible comfort in her ear, “Not so much you as, you know, the Clock-tower. I wonder how many points he’ll dock _it?_ ”

            “Twenty more, Weasley,” Snape’s voice carried back to them, “for that little witticism!”

            “Fifty points,” said Seamus Finnegan, dolefully. “And we’re not even in the classroom yet!”

            “He’s been taking points from Gryffindor for no reason,” added Dean Thomas. “Since Harry, the week before last!”

            Ron turned a hard gaze back on him.

            “ _That_ time he had a reason,” he said, then turned away and trudged toward the Potions room, Hermione close beside him.

            Hermione took the seat Snape had humiliatingly assigned to her the day after that shattering night with Harry, in the front row, closest to the door. Ron glared venomously at Snape as he made his way across to _his_ seat, on the far end of the front row.

            _I think the two of you are an undue distraction to one another. You shall sit **here** , Miss Granger, and you, Mr. Weasley, shall sit **there**. This way, your classmates can.... **chaperone** you._

            “Open your books,” Snape’s voice was sonorous, penetrating, “to page Seven-hundred and eighty-six.” He stepped toward the central bank of Slytherins, who, as they reached the prescribed page, started to grin and snigger. “Most of you,” he intoned, looking at Draco Malfoy and Blaise Zabini, “will never need to know how to brew Morbiphylaxium.” Hermione glanced down at her book.

              _Morbiphylaxium_ , she read, _is a potion used primarily by healers and emergency personnel entering into primitive environments. Exposure to the unclean and diseased can put wizards at risk of infection and pox, especially if those wizards are irresponsible or indiscriminate about their contacts. To protect oneself from the chronic, low-level illnesses that such sources carry, Morbiphylaxium, used judiciously_ –

            “Others...” Snape’s voice, rich with contempt, was directly over her head, “will surely require liberal dosages!” More sniggers from the Slytherins, and Ron shifted in his seat, face flushed with anger on her behalf. She shook her head at him, and Snape spun toward him. “In fact, Mr. Weasley,” he continued, sauntering back to stand over his desk, staring down past his hooked nose at the ginger-haired boy, “I view keeping _you_ supplied with it as something of an emergency.”

            Ron’s chair clattered to the floor behind him as he stood, but the desperation in Hermione’s tone as she cried out, “ _RON!_ ” froze him in his tracks.

            “You have something you wish to say to me, Mr. Weasley?” Snape’s voice was cool, his lip curled.

            Ron’s face was so flushed as to almost be purple, and his muscles actually trembled. His lip curled back from his teeth.... And his eyes met Hermione’s. She stared intensely at him, not even moving so much as the slightest shake of her head. But those eyes carried their message: _I love you, Ron Weasley. You don’t need to do anything. I love you._

            Ron Weasley pulled in a deep breath, and let it out through his nose. “No, Professor,” he finally said, his voice a monotone. “There isn’t.”

            “Then _sit. Down._ ” Ron’s eyes never left Snape’s as he sat, until the professor gestured with his wand, and the chalk began to write instructions on the blackboards. “Here are your instructions. You have until the end of class. Begin.”

* * *

            They were halfway back to Gryffindor tower when Hermione spun to face Snape. The Potions Master had been striding in their wake, so close it was something of a miracle that he hadn’t trod upon her robe or Ron’s. His expression was cunning; he smelled blood. If he could provoke Ron to attack him – and Hermione could _feel_ how close he was – he could have him expelled. She felt his tension building as they walked,  and so she spun, and faced the professor, with a wide, charming smile.

            “Will you be joining us in Gryffindor Tower, Professor?”

            “I beg your pardon?” Snape’s voice was cold.

            “Well, certainly, Professor,” she continued, “though we’re no match for the Hufflepuffs when it comes to hospitality, we can surely find you a comfortable spot, and, of course, you’d be more than welcome!”

            The tone had gone from cold to dangerous. “Are you mocking me, Granger?”

            Hermione’s mouth had opened to respond when the Scots accent of Minerva McGonagall said, in a warmly conversational tone, “I shouldn’t think so, Severus. We are, after all, all one school. By all means, visit us in our tower!”

            “Thank you, Minerva,” Snape intoned, “but I should see to my own House.”

            “Yes, Severus,” McGonagall replied. “That seems a very good idea.”

            When the Head of Slytherin had turned in a flutter of dark robes and slid away, McGonagall turned to Hermione and Ron. “I don’t know where two you get the notion that baiting a senior professor is a good idea, but I strongly advise you to abandon it!” Ron opened his mouth to respond, but she silenced him with a raised palm and eyes of iron. “Now go and put your things away! It’s nearly time for supper!”

            They were half-way up the corridor toward the Fat Lady when Dobby appeared in the hallway, his small hands clutching a stack of books and papers nearly seven feet tall, trying to get tennis-ball-sized eyes to either side as he trotted along, weaving this way and that trying to keep the tottering stack over its own center of gravity.

            His course intersected Ron’s with the sort of fateful inevitability of a Greek play, and Hermione didn’t even gasp as they collided, Ron’s books and papers and parchments and Dobby’s flying in all directions.

            “Mr. Wheezy!” His voice was apologetic and effusive. “Dobby is very sorry, Mr. Wheezy! Let Dobby help!”

            “No, no,” Ron began, glancing nervously at Hermione, “really, I’ve got it, it’s all right.”

            But Dobby was already handing Ron his books, and piling papers on top of them, as Hermione shook her head, one hand pressing two fingers between her dark eyebrows. “Just let him help, Ron,” she said. “He works here, it’s his job.”

            “Thank you Miss Grainy! Thank you!” Dobby put a last few pieces of parchment on Ron’s pile, and in whirl, had gathered the rest to himself.

            “But perhaps,” Hermione added, “you should Apparate to wherever you’re taking that?”

            “Yes, yes, Miss Grainy!” piped the House Elf, enthusiastically, “Dobby will!”

            And with a _Pop!_ he and his burden were gone.

* * *

            Harry turned swiftly away as they came into the Common Room. He could have gone somewhere else, he supposed, but he had to at least _see_ them, know again that they were alive and breathing. Hating him, as they should, and maybe, _please God_ , _safe_ from him, safe from the consequences of his friendship.

            Amidst the hugger-mugger of the crowded Common Room, he heard the familiar sounds of their footsteps, soft on the carpet. Heard the momentary arrhythmia of their strides breaking as they noticed him and then continued on their way.

            _Good. Move on. Stay away. I’m poison to you, stay away._

            He flexed his shoulders, working out some of the stiffness. He’d been using the two free periods that had been double potions for combat practice in the Room of Requirement, and the Room had been kicking the stuffing out of him. But he needed to work harder, train harder, _be_ harder. He needed to become the wizard who could stop Voldemort, who could _kill_ Voldemort, before Voldemort killed _them._ After that, it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter what happened to him, as long as they were safe.

            As their footsteps split to their two separate stairways, Harry opened the book again: _STAY ALIVE! Advanced Magical Combat for Aurors and Other Professionals_. He’d had his time, his taste, of what other people had to live for. He knew, now, what he was fighting for, what he’d survived for. He knew, now, what he was good for, and he’d do it.

            That was all that mattered. That was all that ever would.

* * *

            “Hermione,” Ron’s voice was excited as they left the Great Hall.

            She looked over at him, part of her dreading been seen by Snape, irritated that he was risking it, but still needing him, the one person she could still wholly trust, the one good leg remaining for her to stand on. “Yes, Ron.”

            “Come with me!”

            Her eyes widened. “Are you _mad?_ ” She looked around quickly to see who was close to them, then leaned over to hiss, “ _We can’t possibly risk it!_ ”

            Ron’s eyes sparkled, and his lopsided grin flashed. “We bloody well _can!_ ” He waved a piece of parchment, glanced down at it, and smiled. “Come on!”

            She glanced wildly around again, as he set off down a corridor, then, satisfied they were unseen, followed. She had to know what that parchment was.

            Ron surefootedly led her down corridors and up staircases, and then nodded her into an old classroom. Dust sat thick on the chairs and tables, and on the walls, the hangings and maps – territories marked in red, with the word **GRINDELWALD** emblazoned across them, others in green, marked **WIZARDS’ ALLIANCE** – were torn and faded. Ron closed the door, then cast C _olloportus_ and _Imperturbatus_. Another gesture and torches lit, and finally, Ron pointed at the nearest table and chairs, and cast _Scourgify_.

            Hermione smiled at him as she sat, and Ron pulled a chair close to her. He leaned in, his lips caressing hers, and she drank his kiss in hungrily for a long moment....

            Suddenly, in her mind, it was Harry she was kissing, she could almost feel the black metal rims of his glasses against her cheek, and the sickening feel flooded her again. Taking Ron in her mouth, and pleasuring Harry. Feeling Ron’s erection pressing into her, knowing now that Harry had felt that, too, felt _her_ labia stretching to accept its girth, felt the delicious friction of it sliding against her tenderest flesh.

            She pulled away, and Ron sat back. They looked unhappily at one another.

            “It won’t always be like this,” Ron finally said.

            “No,” she agreed. “People’s lives change. They learn. They learn to live on. So will we.”

            “I just.... I feel sick, you know? Still, just like when we left him there.”

            “God, Ron....” Hermione hitched a breath. “He _felt_ it! Do you realize that?” As Ron’s face darkened, she hurriedly continued, “I know, I know you do, but it’s just... Ron, it’s the first chance we’ve had to talk, to really _talk_ , since it happened! I have to _talk_ about it!”

            “I know, love,” said Ron, quietly. “It’s like... It’s like your arm’s gone, isn’t it? Like you keep trying to reach for your wand, and you remember you’ve got nothing to reach with.”

            She squeezed her eyes shut. “I start to miss him... And then I remember what he did! _I was for you!_ It’s not like I never thought about him, you know that, I mean, it wouldn’t be human, but what he took, what he took... I gave him my trust, and I gave him my loyalty, and I’d’ve given him my life! There was only one thing, one thing I didn’t give him, and he– He just took it!”

            There were tears, now, flowing down her face. “Before... You know, before us, if he’d asked for even that? Oh, God, Ron, I think I would have. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Ron. I love you so much, I’d never hurt you, you know that, tell me you know that!”

            “I know that.” In some part of her mind, Hermione thought that nobody who knew them would believe Ron’s voice could be so tender.

            She almost smiled, grateful through her tears. “And even worse, Ron... He didn’t just take what I gave you. He didn’t just get to– to fuck me with your body, to feel my lips wrapping around _your_ cock. _He took what you gave me!_ ”

            Ron tilted his head, looking at her.

            “Feeling your body moving over mine, Ron. Feeling your touch, tasting your kiss, feeling your weight collapsed on top of me, when you’ve come. Fuh-Feeling your cock moving inside me, feeling the way you _fill_ me, the way I stretch to accept you. Feeling and tasting your skin, the taste of your semen filling my mouth! That was mine, Ron, mine alone, and he took that, too!”

            He pulled her to him, stroked her hair, and she felt the hesitations as he started to speak, the intakes of breath, starting and stopping, starting and stopping, as if he didn’t know how to say what he wanted, needed to say.

            Finally, his voice rasped in her ear. “I’m so jealous, Hermione. I’m jealous of that. Why am I jealous of _that?_ ” He sat back again, looking to her, as he so often did, for explanation. “I mean.... You said it. He’s seen... he’s felt.... He’s had you the way _I_ have, he’s had _exactly_ what I’ve had of you, and, and.... If it was Krum, I’d be on my way to Bulgaria with a club! But what I’m so jealous of is that he got to feel what it’s like to be you!”

            Hermione’s brows drew together, as she looked at him.

            “You’re a girl, Hermione!” There was a touch of humour in his mouth and his eyes as he quoted himself. “You’re.... You’re a mystery, you know, and I’ve wondered, I’ve wondered what it is for you. And I always knew I’d never know.... But _he_ knows. I can’t _stand_ it that he knows!”

            His face dropped, and  he stared at his shoes, mumbled something more.

            “What, Ron?” Hermione leaned in close, touched his shoulder. “What is it?”

            Ron’s face turned up to hers. “I– It’s like I _forget!_ Like, I want to _ask_ him! _Mate, you gotta tell me, what’s it **like** for her?_ ” His features crumpled. “Then it comes back to me, it all comes back!” When he looked back up at her, his eyes were full. “Why did he do it, Hermione? I would have– _We_ would have done _anything_ for him! _Why did he do this to us?_ ”

            And then he was just crying, like he must have cried as a little boy, and he turned away from her, but she pulled him to her, and held him, kissing his hair as he pressed his face into her breast, tears soaking into her robes, patting his back as it heaved with his sobs.

            After a few minutes, Ron’s sobs slowed, and he scrabbled back on the table, looked almost desperately at the parchment, and sighed.

            “What is that, anyway?” Hermione asked.

            Ron managed a half-smile as he wiped his cheeks and nose with the back of his wrist. “Oh, yeah, I meant to tell you. You know when Dobby crashed into me before supper? Well, when he was getting my stuff, I guess he got mixed up, because I found _this_ between _Advanced Potion Making_ and the _Standard Book of Spells_.”

            He handed her the parchment, and she glanced down at it, then looked with more concentration. It looked like a simplified version of the Marauders' Map, with far fewer labeled dots moving across it, and a title written across the top in neat, spidery handwriting Hermione recognized as Dumbledore’s:

**STAFF LOCATOR**

_Or, Magical Teachers and Where to Find them!_

            In the Headmaster’s office, dots labeled _Albus Dumbledore_ and _Argus Filch_ were grouped closely. _Minerva McGonagall_ was in the Gryffindor  Common Room, and _Severus Snape_ was near _Filius Flitwick_ in the Great Hall.

            “Ron!” Hermione’s tone was shocked.

            “Yeah!” His smile was almost normal now. “Isn’t it great? We’ll have no trouble avoiding the greasy bastard now!”

            “Ron, language!” scolded Hermione without thinking.

            “We can–”

            “We can’t keep this, Ron!”

            Ron stared at her, wide-eyed. “What?”

            “Ron, this doesn’t belong to you! This belongs to Professor Dumbledore! We’re _prefects!_ We can’t keep this! We have to bring it back to him!”

            “But, but....”

            She put a hand on his chest, leaned close, and said gently, looking into his eyes, “Ron....”

            “Oh, bugger!” moaned Ron. He squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them. “We can’t! I’m not going in there and giving this back to him in front of _Filch!_ ”

            Hermione glanced at the parchment. “We’re in luck! Look, he’s left Dumbledore’s office, and he’s going back to the staff quarters. See, he’s going into....” She trailed off. There was already a dot in Filch’s quarters.

            “What is it?” Ron asked as her eyes widened in horror.

            She held the parchment silently out to Ron, who looked down for a moment, then goggled. “Merlin’s dingy pants! I can’t know this!”

            As they stared, appalled,  _Argus Filch_ entered the private room, and stopped so close as to overlap with _Irma Pince,_ and the two dots began to slowly pulsate.

* * *

            “Hermione,” said Ron, as they approached the gargoyle, “can we please think about this? Is there really any hurry here? I mean, tomorrow, right? Tomorrow is good enough.”

            “Ron, there’s nothing to think about!” Hermione frowned at him. “We’re prefects, we have to set an example! And we’re _certainly_ not _thieves!_ ” She turned and addressed the gargoyle. “We need to see Professor Dumbledore.”

            “What’s the password?” croaked the stone guardian.

            “We don’t know it!” exclaimed Ron, more cheerfully, perhaps, than such an admission merited. “Come on, Hermione, I guess we’re out of luck.”

            The look Hermione turned on him would have turned a bluebell flame into an icicle. She turned back to the Gargoyle. “We’re here to return lost property to the Headmaster.”

            The granite face looked blankly back at her for several long seconds.

            “See?” said Ron. “All he’s interested in is the password, we’ll have to come–”

            “Very well,” said the Gargoyle, and moved aside, opening the stairway up to Dumbledore’s office.

            Ron hung his head – perhaps a little _too_ low – as they stepped up onto the moving stairs.

            “Oh, buck up, Ron,” said Hermione, the corner of her mouth twitching into a near-smile.

            They stepped into the office, to find Dumbledore turning a multicolored plastic cube in his hands. He glanced up at them and smiled. “Ah! Mr. Weasley, Miss Granger! What a pleasure!” He looked at the toy he was holding again, then placed it on his desk, each face a riot of colors.. “Let us hope you don’t vex me as much as Professor Rubik!”

            “Well, we don’t want to bother you,” Ron began, and Hermione’s fingers closed hard on his side. “ _But_ ,” Ron continued, “we thought we should return this to you.” He pulled the folded parchment from his robes and offered it across the desk to the Headmaster.

            He took it, glanced at it, and looked back up at them, eyes sparkling above his half-moon spectacles. “And you came by this...?”

            “Quite by accident, Headmaster,” said Hermione quickly. “Returning to Gryffindor tower after Double Potions, we, er....”

            “Dobby and I, sir, we had a bit of a collision,” said Ron. “Books and parchment everywhere. Dobby helped me pick up, and I guess in the process, he put this in with my things.”

            Dumbledore smiled. “Alas, Dobby. He’s a tireless worker and a wonderful addition to our staff, but I fear he _is_ rather more willing than capable. I had, however, already noticed this had gone astray, and made myself a replacement.” He gestured to a similar parchment on his desk, under the Rubik’s Cube on whose face, Hermione now noticed, colors were marching determinedly from one square to another. He held the parchment back out to Ron. “I suggest you keep this.” As Ron accepted the proffered sheet, Dumbledore continued, “As prefects, especially given how, shall we say, fraught your lives have been these last few years, it is perhaps as well that you have access to the knowledge of where to find a teacher at any given time.”

            Ron quirked a brow at Hermione, who was looking at the headmaster in surprise. “I.... Thank you, Headmaster,” she said. “I’m sure it will prove very helpful.”

            “ _That’s_ the truth!” added Ron, smiling, and Hermione shot him a hard look.

            “We didn’t wish to interrupt your evening, sir,” Hermione said. “We should be–”

            Dumbledore’s gaze stopped her, and he gestured with his wand, conjuring two large, paisley armchairs. “Please,” he said, “I do need to speak with you for a few more moments. Can you spare me some time?”

            “Of course, sir,” said Hermione, exchanging glances with Ron. They sat, looking again at one another before glancing up to the headmaster.

            “I fear that I have been remiss in not addressing this with you previously.” Dumbledore spoke softly, with real regret in his voice. “Sometimes, we all tend to put off unpleasant tasks, as if they will be somehow more palatable at a later date.” He shook his head sadly. “It never works, sadly. Such tasks, left to fester, simply become sharper.” He sat forward. “There is a disciplinary matter that concerns both of you, and it is only fair that I consult you before making my final decision.”

            “Blimey!” said Ron. “Sir, we don’t mean any harm–”

            As Hermione swung to stare at him, Dumbledore managed a smile, but it was a sad one, and troubled. “You are not in any trouble, Mr. Weasley. In this case, you are not the instigator, but a victim, as are you, Miss Granger.”

            Both students paled, Hermione glancing down at her clasped hands in her lap.

            “As I’m sure you know, two weeks ago, Mr. Potter was expelled from Potions class, and brought here to see me. His conduct caused Gryffindor to be docked one hundred and fifty points. While I would never go so far as to say that any teacher has a history or habit of unfairly docking house points, I will tell you that in _this_ particular case, it was entirely justified.”

            He looked back and forth between the hushed teenagers. “I am aware, as is the whole school, that you are now estranged from Mr. Potter, so I know that you know what he did, did to you.”

            “Yes, sir,” Ron choked out, and Hermione nodded.

            Dumbledore solemnly returned the nod. “I cannot tell you how disappointed I am in Mr. Potter,” he breathed. “What he did was not merely some infraction of school rules, it was a crime, a most serious crime.”

            Hermione drew in a breath.

            “I trusted Harry, you see.” Dumbledore’s voice was quiet. “We all know the special pressures he is under and hazards he faces. Lord Voldemort is supremely dangerous, and he is bent on _killing_ him. So I armed him with every weapon I could, to defend himself against that evil. I taught him a skill that escapes all but the most powerful wizards, in hopes of giving him some small chance against Voldemort’s evil.” His expression was grim in the flickering torchlight. “And Harry abused that trust, abused that weapon, abused that skill. He used what I taught him to satisfy some base voyeuristic appetite, and violated both of you, in the deepest possible way, in the process.”

            Ron and Hermione both stared down at the floor, faces red. A tear wandered down Hermione’s cheek.

            “I can see you are both quite devastated by this betrayal, and rightly so. As I said, the abuse of Legilimency in this manner is a very serious crime. Mr. Potter is subject to expulsion from this school, and, further, to a ten-year sentence in Azkaban, or to having his wand snapped.” Both young heads snapped upright. “As you were his victims, I feel it is only right that you be consulted. Which course do you think is more appropriate?”

            “You must be _joking_ , sir!” cried Hermione. “Azkaban? He’d be dead inside a week! What Harry did was terrible, but it surely doesn’t rise to the level of _imprisonment!_ ”

            Dumbledore shook his head. “In fact, it does. Perhaps I have set a poor precedent, overlooking all manner of infractions, in recognition of Harry’s rather unusual circumstances, but when a crime is committed, there are, there must be, consequences.”

            “But, _Azkaban?_ ” Ron clenched his fists. “How could he possibly survive that? You _know_ he couldn’t!”

            “Mr. Weasley, Sirius Black survived inside Azkaban for twelve years.”

            “He wasn’t the prime target of every Death Eater in the prison, and You Know Who in the bargain! You’d be staking him out like a Demiguise in an Erumpent hunt!”

            Hermione leaned toward the headmaster. “And you _know_ how susceptible Harry is to Dementors!”

            “Then his wand should be snapped?” Dumbledore said.

            “I didn’t _say_ that!” cried Hermione as Ron erupted, “You expect him to just live without magic?”

            “Harry was, after all, raised among Muggles,” Dumbledore said. “Abusing his power as he did–”

            “What’d you _expect!?!?_ ” Ron demanded, interrupting him in a shout. “Did you even _tell_ him that it would be a crime? He’s a teenaged boy, for Merlin’s sake! I know it was a long time ago, but you know what it’s like being our age, you were young once! You taught him how to do this, and did you ever think to talk to him about using it responsibly?”

            “Headmaster,” Hermione was on her feet now. “You know Ron is right. I mean, even any normal teenager would find it a powerful temptation, to be able to experience that, but, Harry? Do you realize that, after he was left on the Dursleys’ doorstep, the next time he was touched with any sort of love or affection was when Hagrid met him on his eleventh birthday? He was raised without ever feeling a loving touch, not once between his first year and his eleventh, never a hug, never a kiss, never a caress or a pat. And you gave him the ability to draw that experience from us, and left him between us without even talking to him about it! I know, I know–” She drew in a deep breath. “I know you must find it uncomfortable to discuss sex with a boy so young.”

            “Oh, Merlin, Hermione,” moaned Ron, burying his face for a moment in his hands.

            “But you had a responsibility to him, and you failed him, and now you’re talking about sending him to Azkaban and snapping his wand? You’re calling him such a terrible disappointment? It’s _you_ I’m disappointed in!” She pointed at him, her voice rising. “You had a responsibility to Harry, and to us, we all depend on you to _teach_ us! And you _didn’t!_ ” She turned away, pushing her hands back through her bushy brown hair.

            Ron sat forward as she slumped back into her chair. “She’s right, you know. This is where we’re supposed to learn how to live with magic for the rest of our lives. Harry, he wasn’t brought up in magic! He should have been told this could happen! He should have had a chance to stop and think before it did! What it would do to whoever he did it to! What it would do to _him!_ What’d he get? He got the kind of powers that scared the Muggles into persecuting us, and bugger all about how to use them!” Ron’s hand flipped up as if tossing a snitch. “At least he knows how to make a mouse out of a teacup, though! I guess that ought to count for something!”

            Dumbledore sank back into his chair. “I owe you both an apology,” he said. “But the law has been broken, and a decision has to be made.”

            “And who’s gonna be your witness, then?” asked Ron. “A teacher who used Legilimency on a student in class?”

            “Surely you–” Dumbledore began, and Ron was on his feet, riding him down.

            “We ruddy well won’t! That tosser’s a lot of things, but he’s our friend, and we won’t see him off to his death!”

            Hermione’s eyes, staring at Ron, were wide.

            “Mr. Weasley speaks for you as well, Miss Granger?”

            “Yuh– Yes!” Hermione was flushed. “Yes, he certainly does!”

            The headmaster removed his half-moon glasses, and sat a moment, looking at the lenses between his careful fingers. On a table to one side, a shining silver device belched a plume of lavender smoke. “Then I am left with no choice,” he finally told them. “Loath as I am to see a crime go unpunished, I cannot report it to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement without sufficient evidence.”

            “Then, I suppose, that’s the end of that,” said Hermione, quietly.

            Dumbledore nodded. “If you would excuse me, then, I have to devise a detention plan for Miss Burbage. It seems one of her first-years stole a quill from a classmate. So silly, really, that children will steal what would be so freely offered.”

            He glanced up, a sad smile of farewell, and Ron and Hermione nodded, and stepped quietly from the room. For a few moments, there was silence but for the scratching of Dumbledore’s quill.

            “You always were a sly one, Albus,” said Armando Dippet’s portrait. The corner of Dumbledore’s mouth quirked upwards.

* * *

            Hermione stopped for a moment, in an empty hallway halfway to Gryffindor tower, and grabbed Ron’s arm, pulling him into an empty classroom. Ron glanced down at the Staff Locator, and moved against her, pulling her close.

            She stopped him with two fingers on his lips, although he could see the flush rising from her neck into her cheeks, and feel her press her center against him. The mixed message was fire and ice inside him, and all he wanted was to drive his mouth down to capture hers, fingers and all. But she was his Hermione, and he obeyed the fingers of her conscious will.

            “I don’t know how he did it!” Hermione’s voice was hot and breathy, and equal parts annoyed and admiring. “How did he do that?”

            Ron stared at her a moment, then closed his eyes, tension he hadn’t even been aware of flowing from his body like electricity discharging into the ground. “That wily, barmy old bastard!”

            “Ron!” Hermione’s scandalized cry was edged with laughter. “He _is_ –”

            “Greatest Wizard of our time, man who defeated Grindelwald, Headmaster, yeah, yeah, yeah!” Ron grinned. “But he’s still a right manipulative old bastard!” He sobered. “Not that he’s wrong, mind you. About the laws, I mean.”

            Hermione nodded grimly. “I know.  I _did_ look that up.”

            “Still.... You don’t really think he’d have sent him to....” Ron trailed off.

            “No.” Hermione shook her head just a little too hard. “Certainly not! He wouldn’t... Surely not. Do you think?”

            They looked at one another for a long moment, eyes wide.

            “I don’t know.” Ron finally breathed. “I guess the question is, what are we going to do now?”

            Hermione took the Staff Locator from his fingers, looked it over for a long moment. Then her hands snaked down to undo his belt. “First,” she said, pushing his grey twill trousers and orange boxers down his thighs, “I’m helping myself to a bit of this.” Her fingers wrapped round a cock already filling and stiffening. “Then, we’re going to come up with a plan.”

            “Oh, Merlin, I like the way you think!” cried Ron, his fingers curling into her hair as she sank to her knees.

* * *

            “ _Diffindo!_ ” Harry ducked under a flying hex, spinning and switching his aim. “ _Reducto!_ ” As the first wooden Death-Eater blew into splinters, Harry rolled, yet another hex flashing above him, and took aim at a third target. “ _Incendio!_ ”

            The jet of flame blossomed forth as the second mannikin collapsed into pieces, and by the time Harry was on his feet, had enveloped a third, the wood crackling cheerily into flames. Another hex came from behind him, and he spun, the trailing flames from his _Incendio_ sweeping back to catch the arm of his robe. As it sprung into flames he brought his arm up. “ _Expulso!_ ” Then, as the last mannikin burst into a shower of wooden chunks, he turned his wand on his flaming left arm. “ _Aguamenti!_ ”

            Water streamed from his wand, dousing the flames, and he brushed the sodden, ashy remains of it from his arm. The skin was blistered, livid. He glanced at his wand. “Rubbish at healing charms,” he muttered. “Pity Herm–” He savagely cut off that line of thought. _Gone forever, and good for her. Good for the both of them._

            He moved toward the door, cradling his arm, the red, blistered skin already clamoring for attention. Madam Pomfrey would not be surprised to see him. But he never made it to the Hospital Wing.

            As he stepped out into the hallway, a large fist gathered up the front of his robes, and he was spun back against the wall opposite. A cry of pain escaped him, and he heard a gasp – _that_ gasp! – and, impossibly, Hermione’s voice crying, “ _Palliatus! Sano Curatio!_ ”

            The pain receded immediately, and the blisters drew back into his skin.

            “That should see some Dittany,” Hermione muttered, “but this should do for now. Bring him, Ron.”

            Ron’s face was very close to Harry’s now. “Right. You’re coming with us. Are we going to have any silly arguments about this?”

            _Yes! Go away, what are you doing here? Get away from me, don’t you know I’m poison?_

            But Harry’d never been strong enough.

            “No,” he breathed.

            He followed meekly through a maze of corridors, until they were standing in an empty hallway, facing a blank stone wall. Ron thrust a scrap of parchment into his fingers, and Harry glanced down at it. In Ron’s scruffy, cheerful hand were the words: _The entrance to the collapsed passageway is right in front of you._

            Harry frowned at it, and looked up. What had been a simple stone wall was now an archway, leading to a chamber, perhaps eight feet wide and fifteen feet deep. There were a couch and a couple of chairs there, and a small table. The far wall was a jumble of collapsed brick and stone.

            As Harry looked in through the archway, the memory was suddenly vivid, bringing his friends in here for the last time, confessing to them the sin he’d committed against them. The violence of Ron lashing out, the unforgiving line of Hermione’s mouth. How had he forgotten this place? He’d remembered the events, he was sure of that, remembered his fear and heartsickness, remembered their pain and loss and growing hatred.... But it was as though, for the past few days, he hadn’t known – indeed, hadn’t _known_ he hadn’t known – where it had happened!

            He glanced over at Ron, baffled, but Ron pushed him, not roughly,  between his shoulder-blades, and he stepped forward, through the arch. Within, torches played merrily on the walls, warming the room as well as lighting it.

            “Fi–” It seemed like years since Harry had spoken, and his voice came out in a croak. He stopped and started again. “ _Fidelius_?” as Ron and Hermione nodded, he said, “I didn’t think you could cast that inside Hogwarts.”

            There was a quiet sound from Ron, and Hermione said, “One oughtn’t to be able to since 1834, when Headmaster Dexter Fortescue cast his famous anti-charm.” She glanced toward Ron. “Apparently, the entire Potions section disappeared for two weeks under a _Fidelius_ charm cast by Osric and Yorick Prewitt, identical twins, would you believe? Anyway, they eventually confessed when their friend Theodolinda Peverell burst into tears over missing a Potions exam, because that _Incomplete_ spoiled her perfect grade record for the year. Professor Fortescue devised and cast the anti-charm himself. Really, he should have left it to his Charms master: that was never his strong suit.”

            Harry and Ron exchanged a glance, both smiling at Hermione’s familiar, flawless, thorough research, speaking of a centuries-dead headmaster as if she’d known him personally. Their shared pleasure in seeing her at her truest was suddenly washed away. _What right do I have to smile at Ron over her? She’s his, not mine, and what I had of her, I threw away!_

            “So Professor Fortescue’s anti-charm was cast on _‘Every chamber, hall, room and passageway within Hogwarts.’_ Once this one caved in,” she gestured at the collapsed stone beyond the couch, “the anti-charm no longer applied.”

            Harry couldn’t help himself. “ _Hogwarts, a History_?”

            “Partially,” replied Hermione. “Partially the Autobiography of Pandolphus Zabini, thought to be one of the great Wizards of his time – By Pandolphus Zabini, anyway. He created a charm called _Veneficus_ , which he thought would revolutionize the Wizarding World. No-one has any idea what it was supposed to have done.”

            Harry felt another smile, born and dying on his lips in the same instant. He looked from her to Ron, both shifting, now, a little uncomfortably.

            “Why are we here?” he finally asked.

            Hermione looked at him for a long moment, then over at Ron, and stood facing him. She looked into his eyes for a very long moment, her expression unreadable but powerful, then shrugged her robes from her shoulders, and grabbed the gold-and-scarlet-striped hem of her grey Gryffindor jumper, and pulled it upward over the white cotton blouse. Her head emerged from the inverted “V” of the neck, and as she shook her bushy brown hair through it, she glared.

            “Ron!” she snapped. Harry glanced over, and Ron, wide-eyed, started shucking off his own robes and uniform. When he had turned back to Hermione, she was unwrapping the pleated grey twill skirt from around her waist. The tails of the blouse hung partway over plain white cotton knickers.

            Harry heard a _clunk_ behind him, and looked to see that Ron was trying to step out of his grey trousers, now pooled around his ankles, but having little luck, as he’d neglected to remove his shoes first.

            “Fuck,” Ron hissed, and, nearly falling, shuffled around so he could brace one heel beneath the other, and got his left foot free, the sock pulled haphazardly down his shin.

            “What–?” Harry’s head swung back and forth – _Hermione, unbuttoning her blouse, Ron angrily kicking a loose shoe toward the back of the passageway, Hermione gracefully toeing her buckled shoes from her feet, Ron stopping a moment to watch her as she began to roll the stocking down her left thigh_ – “I don’t–” What were they doing? Were they going to have sex right in front of him, to prove some point, to rub his nose in what he’d done? As Ron’s thumbs dipped into the waistband of his faded orange Cannons boxers, as Hermione carefully dropped her second stocking atop her shoes and reached behind herself for the clasp of her bra, Harry turned his gaze to the wall of fallen rubble, to the cracked stone of the ceiling, to the cheap, soft carpet that was now on the floor.

            He was aware of pale pink flesh, blurry, in motion outside the field of his cheap circular glasses, two forms standing side-by-side. Clearly in focus on the carpet in front of him were four bare feet, two large, with calloused toes topped with tufts of copper-colored hair, two smaller, almost dainty, with immaculately-trimmed, uncolored nails.

            “Harry.” Hermione’s voice was hushed. “Harry, look at us.”

            He shook his head, mute, willing himself not to take in the slender ankles or the strong; the delicately-curved calves or the wiry, ginger-haired ones.

            “Look at us, mate,” said Ron.

            It was _mate_ that did it, of course. The word he’d never expected to hear again, in the voice that should never have carried it. His eyes snapped up, and he was seeing them, standing before him in the flickering, golden torchlight, heads up, hands at their sides, facing him. Naked.

            “Look at us, Harry,” said Hermione again. “We’re naked before you.”

            “I–” Again, Harry’s voice choked, and he had to start again. “I’m _sorry!_ I’m _so fucking sorry,_ Hermione, I don’t know what else I can say, what else I can do! I’m poison, you think I don’t know that? I destroy every good thing I touch! You don’t have to do this, I _get_ it! I’m sorry!”

            “No, mate.” It was Ron’s voice again, so soft, so– So _sweet!_ The voice he remembered as Ron, stunned and amazed to have been allowed the privilege of Hermione’s sex, of Hermione’s love, told her he loved her. “You _don’t_ get it.”

            As Harry stared up at him, he saw tears swimming in the cobalt-blue eyes, and as her hand brushed against his chest, he glanced over to Hermione to see her tears flowing freely down her cheeks.

            “Let her tell it, Harry,” said Ron. “You know she’s better at it.”

            “We’re naked before you,” she said again. “We were before, and we didn’t know it. That was wrong, Harry, that was terribly wrong. I don’t need to tell you that.”

            “No,” he managed to croak.

            “But we know now, Harry. We _choose_ now. We’re naked before you, because you’re our friend, and more than our friend. We’re naked before you, because that’s what we always should have been. Do you understand?”

            His own eyes were wet, and he brushed at his cheeks with the backs of impatient hands. “I– I don’t–”

            “We love you, Harry. We’ve been angry with you, and I suppose we still are, but that doesn’t matter. Ron and I, we can understand that. We’ve got families, real families. We know that someone can be angry with us, and still love us.”

            “What you gotta understand, mate,” Ron’s voice was hoarse. “What you gotta understand, is that _you_ have a real family, too. Not those bloody Muggles of yours, and not even us Weasleys. _We’re_ your family, Harry. Me and Hermione. The three of us. _That’s_ your family.”

            Hermione was pushing Harry’s robe back off his shoulders. “We’re a family, Harry, and we always will be.” Her hands pushed his jumper up his chest, and Ron helped her pull it up over his head and throw it aside. “And inside our family, Harry, there’s nothing, there’s nothing, that doesn’t belong to you.” Her fingers undid his belt buckle, as Ron’s fumbled with buttons on his shirt. “Nor to Ron, of course.” She was unbuttoning  the fly of his grey twill trousers, hooking her fingers into the elastic of the Y-fronts underneath. “Nor to me.” She pushed the trousers and pants down his legs as Ron opened the last button, and pushed his shirt back off his shoulders.

            She looked up from where she knelt before him, cupping one hand under an ankle to work his shoe off beneath the pooled trousers. Being stripped by them, these two beautiful, naked forms, had its effect, and he was starting to harden, the head of his stiffening cock brushing against her cheek as the shoe fell and she leaned to remove the other.

            “So there’s no need to steal, Harry,” she said softly. She turned her head, and kissed the shaft of his penis as she had so many times kissed his cheek, and then she stood as he stepped out of the puddle of grey twill and white cotton, toeing himself out of his socks. One of her arms was around him, now, the other around Ron, who was gathering them both in his own arms. Their flesh was a warm, pliant miracle against his, and he was crying now, babbling, not even himself knowing what words were flowing from him, though _sorry_ and _love you_ were repeated often. “Not our things and not our thoughts, and _certainly_ not our love. You _can’t_ steal that, Harry. It’s already yours.”

            “You just have to _ask_ , mate, okay?” Ron’s voice was so soft, so gentle. Harry hardly recognized it. This, he knew, was the Ron only Hermione knew. It was the Ron who could love her and comfort her and be soft and “weak” – God, how Harry scoffed at that word! – for her.

            Ron was hard, too, his cock nudging unapologetically between his belly and Hermione’s.  Harry squeezed his eyes shut for a long moment, mustering himself, mastering himself, then said, “I won’t ask. Dumbledore told me, told me, I can’t let it happen again. Told me I mustn’t lose myself in dreams.”

            Both of them looked puzzled, and then Hermione laughed, soft and sweet and tender. “Oh, no, Harry, not the Legilimency. Why would you want that? Ron means – _we_ mean – ask us. Ask Ron, ask me.”

            Now Harry looked confused. “And you’ll.... You’ll tell me?”

            “No, mate.” Ron leaned his head against Harry’s and Hermione’s fingers were suddenly down, wrapping softly around his hardness. “You won’t need to be told.”

            Ron’s lips pressed against his cheek, clumsy, awkward, self-conscious, but entirely sincere. “We love you, mate,” he said. Harry stared at him, and was almost unaware of Hermione sinking again to her knees. Ron’s lips met his, surprisingly soft, surprisingly sweet, and in the same moment, he felt the heat and softness of Hermione’s lips closing over the head of his cock. He gasped, and Ron sucked on his lower lip, looking a little unsure of himself.

            Then Harry’s eyes fluttered closed as he felt Hermione’s teeth just grazing his shaft, and his world was the touch of miraculous flesh, and tears he didn’t know he’d been holding back for so very, very long.

* * *

            He didn’t know how much later it was that they lay tangled together at the foot of the couch. Hermione’s legs were wrapped languidly around him, a trail of moisture from her – _her pussy!_ – to his softening cock where it lay against her thigh, the magical condom only now slipping from him to fall between them with a comical _plop!_ Her head was on Ron’s thigh, a cursive sentence of semen written from the corner of her mouth to _his_ flaccid cock, her eyes almost weightless as Ron’s long fingers played with her hair.

            “Do you understand now, mate?” asked Ron.

            Harry nodded, looking down at their girl, spread out, naked and sated before him, up at their boy, happy and proud and stunned and defiant. “I never did before,” he murmured to Ron. “Not even experiencing it as you did. I never–”

            “It’s different, Harry,” sighed Hermione. “It’s different when you know it’s yours.”

            He nodded again, looking down at her relaxed nipples, at the curves of her belly and her mound, at the wild dark curls of her pubic hair, and the glistening pink of her moist labia. He looked up at Ron, and saw his eyes acknowledging Harry’s look, eyes that shared knowledge every bit as much as when she ran for the library for an answer.

            He felt something stir inside himself as he looked at the long, freckled body, and wondered how, wondered when, to pursue that. _Just ask._

            “Ron....” He didn’t know how to phrase it. “Are you.... Will we...?”

            Ron shrugged. “I dunno, Harry. I never _kissed_ a bloke till today. I reckon it’s easier for you, ‘cause you’ve been her.”

            “ _You_ could be me, Ron,” said Hermione. “Harry can teach you.”

            Harry stared at her. “I– Teach Ron?”

            “And me,” she replied, nodding matter-of-factly. “It hardly seems fair that you know what each of us experiences, but we don’t.”

            “Yeah, mate!” Ron chuckled. “And I’ve been sitting next to you in classes for the last six years. I’m pretty sure that if you can learn something, so can I. And you _know_ she can!”

            They heard footsteps, and looked toward the opening into the hallway. Harry froze as, in a heraldic swirl of black robes, Severus Snape strode past, pulling a pocket-watch from his dark waistcoat, and giving it a dark glance.

            “’Sall right, mate,” said Ron. “We can see out, but nobody but us can see in. He couldn’t even trip and _fall_ in, unless we were tripping him inside deliberately. _Fidelius_ , mate!”

            Harry glanced over at Hermione. “That’s really advanced magic.”

            “Oh, like there’s any doubt she could!” said Ron. “C’mon, love, can you hit us with some cleaning charms? That greasy git has a point. If we’re not back in Gryffindor tower soon, we’re going to be losing points by the trunkload!”

            Hermione smiled as she reached for her wand, and soon they were getting dressed. Harry looked from her to Ron, and felt the warmth filling his chest. _All the Dementors of Azkaban wouldn’t stand a chance,_ he thought.

            Then he shrugged his damaged robes back over his shoulder, and glanced at the parchment in his best mate’s hands as Ron said, “Okay, we’re clear.”

**THE END**

  
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.


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